Opportunity (8 page)

Another thing Dan knew about was cameras. He videoed
sports days, school outings. Karen got him to video the school
play.

In March I invited Tom to Charles's birthday party. It was
already a riot by the time Dan and Tom arrived. The boys
were throwing themselves into the pool and shooting one
another with water guns. Max was already talking about
needing a gin and tonic. Dan pushed Tom ahead of him and
said, 'Make sure you behave yourself.' Tom walked away,
towards the pool.

'About four o'clock, then,' I said, putting on a wry, brave
face, because of the bedlam.

'Actually, I thought I'd stay, if that's all right,' Dan said. 'It's
a long drive home and my car's making a funny noise.'

'Oh. Okay, fine.' I was flustered. I went to my room and
looked in the mirror. I put on some makeup, to cover my
blushing. I thought about offering him some wine.

When I looked out, Dan was running across the lawn with
a water gun, shooting the boys. I watched him wrestle a boy to
the ground. It was strange to see a man throwing himself
about in that way. His shirt came up and I saw his chest. I felt
hot watching him. He put his foot on the boy and did a Tarzan
pose, showing his arm muscles. The boys stopped running
and watched uncertainly, trailing their guns. The boy under
Dan suddenly twisted away, and Dan fell. He got up, marched
over, took hold of the boy's collar and put his face up close,
talking. The boy bowed his head, hunching his small shoulders.
Dan said something and flipped the boy away. Then they were
all running again, hooting and shrieking.

I went out on the deck and offered him a glass of wine. He
came over, sweating. He refused the wine. He said, 'Honestly.
Kids.'

'What happened?'

'They get a bit carried away, don't they? They need a bit of
telling.'

He went back to the lawn.

I was icing the cake when Charles came in, crying.

'What's wrong?' I asked.

Dan walked in, hot and laughing. 'He banged his face in
battle.'

'Never mind, old chap,' Max said. He and Dan exchanged
wry smiles. Max handed Dan a beer.

'What did you bang it on?' I asked. I touched the bruise on
his cheek.

'His gun,' Charles said loudly, pointing at Dan.

'Never mind,' Max said again, and hustled the boys towards
the table.

Charles cheered up and the party carried on. Afterwards Max
and I drank some wine. I wanted to talk to him but he went to sleep in his
chair when I was in the middle of telling him something. I read a book, watched
some TV. I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered whether my face was
getting old.

***

We were sitting on the benches, waiting for the boys to come
out of class. Karen said, 'I'm going to set up my own business.
Selling designer children's clothes?'

Dan nudged me. 'There's a book I want to lend you.' We
were sitting close together. I could feel the muscles in his
arm.

Some boys came tearing out. Dan got up and went over.
'Excuse me,' he said to Tom. 'Don't you know you're not
allowed to run?'

Tom looked down. The boys shifted uneasily.

'I don't want to see you doing it again,' he said. He took
hold of Tom's arm. 'Is that clear?'

He came back. 'They need boundaries. Boys respond to that.'

Karen sighed sententiously. 'It's a fact.'

'For example . . .' Dan went on. He stopped. 'Just a minute.'

The boys were play fighting. Dan walked over to them very
fast. He took hold of two and pulled them apart, then he
pushed the other boys into a line. He walked up and down,
talking.

Charles started to walk away. Dan glanced from him to the
other boys. Then he jogged after Charles. Charles looked
behind and began to run. Dan ran faster, caught hold of his
arm, and Charles fell onto the concrete. Dan held him down,
hard, for a moment. Then he half got up, went down again,
and did a mock wrestling hold.

He came back, pushing Charles ahead of him.

'Here's your villain,' he said. He was breathing hard, his face
red and sweaty. He thrust Charles at me, his knees skinned
where he'd fallen on the concrete. 'I think your mother wants
to talk to you,' he said. He winked at me and Karen.

'What do you think you're doing?' I said to Dan.

'We'll make him a decent citizen,' Dan said.

'No,' I said. 'We're going.' We started to walk away. I hugged
Charles's shoulders.

Dan came up behind us. He put his hand on my shoulder.
'Is there a problem?' he said.

'He's my son. You don't tell him what to do. I do.'

Dan began to shake. He leaned over me. I had a sense of
how tall and muscular he was. 'I think we're all entitled to set
appropriate standards,' he said.

'He's my son. If he needs telling, I'll tell him.'

Dan clenched his fists. He came up very close. 'I think we
all . . .' He choked. I'd never seen him angry before.

'You do not tell him what to do, and you do not touch him.
Ever!' I hurried Charles away. We got into the car. I looked into the rear-view
mirror, into my own eyes. I thought of Dan shaking, his face screwed up. I
looked at Charles. He didn't say anything.

***

The next day Dan handed me an envelope, his hands trembling.
I took it and walked away.

I read it. It was long and articulate. Dan apologised. He
realised that an issue had arisen between us. He was confident
that, though we might have some different ideas about
appropriate discipline and standards of behaviour, we could
acknowledge them, work through them, and go on making
sure the boys progressed well. He and I understood each
other. We had the same aims and goals. It was natural there
might be the odd situation where we would diverge, but we
knew we were mostly in agreement. It would be a shame if
anything affected the great friendship between the boys. Dan
realised his expectations were high (and he didn't think
unrealistically so), but he was perfectly able to be flexible if
others didn't have the same . . .

The letter ran on, repeating itself. It was bullying, full
of jargon. It was elaborate and strenuous. Under the surface it threatened,
it accused. It aimed to send me scurrying, flustered and apologising, to heal
the rift. I had the sense of Dan clutching at something he desperately wanted,
a sense almost of hysteria. I thought of the other fathers I knew. They were
busy, preoccupied with their adult worlds. They cared about their children.
But they didn't take much notice of their children's friends. I sat by the
pool, reading the letter again. I couldn't believe I'd been such a fool.

***

Dan stayed away from us for a week. Then one morning he
came across the playground. His face was white and strained.
He talked very fast.

'Hope that's all sorted out? Tom's been at me about his
website. We haven't had the photo of Charles yet. Could I just
have a picture of him? Tom will be really pleased.' He took a
digital camera out of his bag.

'No,' I said.

'No?' He blinked.

'And the videos you've taken of Charles — at sports, at
swimming. I want you to give them to me.'

He knew what I was saying. He gave me a look of such
hatred I backed away. His face burned.

In the days after that, all I could think about was how to
keep Dan away from Charles. I couldn't tell anyone, because I
had no real evidence. I didn't want to hurt Tom. It made me
cold to think that I'd pushed Charles to play with Tom. I kept
coming back to the fact that Charles had kept his distance. He
had kept away from Dan.

The boys were to go on a swimming trip. Parents were
invited, but Max and I were going to a wedding. I said to Max,
'You go to the wedding and I'll go on the school trip.'

Max said, 'Are you out of your mind?'

I sat Max down and told him about Dan. I said I'd realised
Dan was fixated on Charles. 'He flattered me. He made me
think he liked me, but all the time it was Charles. Just watch
him. You watch. He never takes his eyes off Charles.'

Max sighed impatiently. 'He seems like a normal guy to
me.' The discussion went on and on. We ended up shouting at
each other.

The next day I went to Charles's teacher. She looked at me
expectantly and I got nervous. My voice shook. I tried to explain
but I muddled it badly. I could tell she thought I was nuts.

'You see, I think Dan wants to
hurt
Charles,' I finished up. I
was whispering. I couldn't bring myself to be more frank.

The teacher looked at me in silence. Then she told me an
anecdote about a school trip to the zoo. It wasn't connected to
anything I'd said. It was as if she thought she was saving me
from embarrassment. I left feeling idiotic. I knew what I was
trying to tell her was true, but why should she believe me? I
had no hard facts. There was so much I couldn't say and so
little that I could.

That day after school I went to Dan. I made myself look
friendly and relaxed. We said a few neutral things, then I
asked him casually, 'Are you going on the swimming trip?'

His expression was pleasant. 'No, I have to work,' he said.

I decided to go with Max to the wedding.

Next morning the parents gathered outside the class. Dan
was there, carrying a backpack. 'I got the day off after all,' he
said, and he smiled. I was shocked by the smile. It said
everything: that there was war between us; there was hatred.
I felt it in my stomach, the violence of it. No one would have
noticed or understood. They saw Dan Weston smiling at me,
in the jolly crowd of parents and boys.

I went to Karen. I said, 'Can you do something for me? Can
you take Charles in your group and make sure Dan Weston
doesn't go near him?'

She opened her mouth, amazed.

'It's important. Don't let Dan near Charles.'

Max was waiting in the car. He gave a blast on the horn.
Karen looked, mystified, over at Dan, smiling and joking with
the other parents.

'Please,' I said.

'All right.' She put her hand on my arm. I hurried away.

After the wedding, Max and I were sitting in the car. I said
to him, 'This can't go on.' I was thinking about Dan, the
school.

Max was drunk. He said, 'No it can't.'

'I'm going to take Charles out of King's.'

Max said, 'What? Over my dead body!' He thumped the
steering wheel. He wouldn't hear of it. He had gone to the
school. His father and grandfather. Hell would freeze
over . . .

'The situation is impossible.'

Max leaned over to me. 'It is impossible. Because
you're
impossible.'

I sat for a moment in silence. 'I know what's going to
happen,' I said finally. We looked at each other. We knew each
other very well. Without saying anything we agreed.

Max and I separated. He tried to stop me changing Charles's
school, but in the end he had to give in. Charles didn't mind.
He was pleased — relieved — to go back to his ordinary,
homely state primary. He'd been happier there with his old
friends. He gave up golf lessons. Max junior started at the
primary school too.

I kept the house. Max and I had so much money the split
didn't hurt us much. At least, I didn't think so. I knew how
lucky I was. Max complained bitterly about finances. I played
on his meanness when we were arguing about Charles
changing schools. I told him what a saving it would be. After
six months Max got himself a new girlfriend. Really he'd had
her all along.

When Charles and Max junior have friends after school I
say to them, 'Off you go. Do what you like. Go and play under
the house!'

It's a silly private joke of mine, but it makes me feel happy.

Karen tells me that Dan took Tom out of school too, soon
after Charles left. He did it without warning and they
disappeared.

I don't know where they are now. Maybe Dan Weston's
turned up at your child's school. Or maybe that blue-eyed
security guard is stationed right outside the building where
you work. You've got to keep an eye out. The world is full of
strange people.

Extraordinary things can be harder to spot than ordinary
ones. But it's the extraordinary things that jolt you into taking
action. I'm happier now than I've been for years. I've got Dan
Weston to thank for that.

Max tells everyone that I'm mad and impossible. He says
I'll use any excuse to get my own way. I know people may have
trouble believing what I've said, about being followed through
the supermarket by a murderer, about Dan wanting Charles
not me, and my being too vain and stupid to realise until it
was nearly too late. But it's true. I've written it down, because
every word of it is true.

When I was examining a patient one morning an ant ran up
the speculum. I concealed a flash of boyish laughter, panic. I
angled the light, trying to find it. It had disappeared up there.
One of the patient's round tanned knees brushed my ear. She
had her baby in a car seat on the floor. She was staring at the
ceiling, one hand behind her head.

I gave up, eased the speculum out. Decided it couldn't do
any harm.

'That's fine,' I said. 'You can get dressed now.' I took her arm
and helped her up. She let out a long breath and smiled.

I waited until she came out from behind the curtain. She
was open-faced, plump, happy. The baby had round cheeks
and silvery hair.

She listened to what I was saying. She was in perfect health,
I told her. And there were no problems with the beautiful
child.

'The birth was so hard,' she said. She smiled at the baby.
'She took until 6 a.m. to arrive, remember?'

'Ah, 6 a.m.' Often I have forgotten. There are so many. But I
did remember the birth of her child, because, just before it, I'd
delivered a baby whose father was drunk. I was on call for the
public patients that night. There was a scene. The drunken
father insulted a nurse. Security was called. The baby came
while the husband was arguing with the midwife. I congratulated
the mother. The nurses did too.

Then, around 5.30 a.m., I went to her, my private patient.
Her husband, some lawyer or stockbroker, hovered anxiously
near. The birth was straightforward. Every time I did something
for this couple, they thanked me.

I walked her out to reception. She looked at me. You don't
talk about these things, but I know a few of my obstetric
patients fall in love with me, just a bit. I've been there, helped
them, at their finest hour. Also, in a funny sort of way, it's a bit
like we've had sex back there in my consulting rooms. I don't
mean sexual gratification. But the level of intimacy, the
amount they reveal to me, it's significant. They think about it.
A few fall in love for a while, and then they forget. You get the
odd one who won't let go. But they're rare. I have Clarice, my
secretary, to protect me. And a big photo of my wife Karen on
my desk, just to keep things clear.

Off she went, to the gleaming SUV. She turned and smiled
again. Such trust. There you go with an ant up you, I thought.
My mouth twitched. But that's the thing. I have bad thoughts,
funny thoughts, savage thoughts. I have power over people.
But I don't hurt them. They know I will never hurt them.

I straightened my face, because Viola was looking at me.
Every time I came out of my room that young woman did
nothing but stare.

I got home late. I turned into the drive. The bedroom light
was on upstairs. Karen would be getting ready. I drove past
the cypress trees, the flowerbeds, looking up at the house.
It's two-storey, handsome, the return veranda covered in
flowering wisteria. The new deck furniture out there by the
pool, spotlights in the garden lighting up the ferns. If you
spend long enough in my game you end up with money.
Karen is always planning holidays, renovating. You end up
wondering what to spend your money on.

Karen is a good person. She has done a lot for worthy
causes. Our names — Dr Simon Lampton and Ms Karen
Rutherford — are on the Gold List of sponsors for the opera,
the theatre, the children's hospital. That night we had tickets
for the ballet. I don't really go for ballet. The theatre all dark
and suddenly a skinny figure hurtling 'expressively' across the
stage. I have private thoughts: pretty ridiculous
you
look.
Afterwards we come out and mingle with the other Gold List
patrons, dressed up and full of our own virtue. I like the
warmth and light, the crowd, the uniform — suits and evening
dresses. We're armoured. I always have to wait for Karen. She
stays on until the last moments, networking.

In front of me, men in leotards formed a circle and clasped
one another. There was thunder and lightning, then the
whistle of a train. The dancers mimed sorrow and pain. Karen
was leaning forward, looking at the programme. On the other
side her friend elbowed her and whispered: Trish, with her
designer clothes and gold jewellery, her fluttering lashes, dyed
blonde hair.

I can't stand Trish.

After the performance Karen said, 'Trish will drive me
home. We've got things to talk about.' A fundraiser. They
would linger over coffee, planning. Trish fluttered her fingers
at me. She wore layers of shiny ruffled material. Her hair was
platinum, afro. Once, at a party at her house, I talked to her
husband. He gestured at the guests and said, 'Most of the
wealth of this country is represented here.'

'Really,' I said.

Someone switched on an outside light. The women's hands went
to their faces. I saw teeth, eyes. Teeth and eyes.

***

I started driving home. But then I went a different way. I
drove down to the end of Queen Street, then up to the top,
slowly. I turned onto Karangahape Road. I was putting off
going home to the empty house. The streets were quiet; light
rain made blurred loops of the streetlights. There were small
crowds outside dark doorways, bouncers letting people in.
I slowed down outside the Owl Bar. Two men were arguing.
The taller man, dressed in a shabby coat, flared jeans and
sandals, was leaning over a short, fat man, jabbing his finger
into his shoulder. Someone tooted behind me. I pulled in to
the kerb. The tall man shoved and shouted. I looked at his
sour, disappointed mouth, his thick helmet of black hair. His
glasses hung on a plastic chain around his neck. He came near
my car. I slid down in my seat. He took a comb out of his
pocket and slicked back his hair. His fingers were long, mobile
— piano player's hands. He buttoned up his coat, fiddled with
his glasses. He held them up and looked towards my car. I
didn't breathe. He took a bottle out of his bag and swigged. He
peered around, looked up at the rain drifting, falling. His body
was swaying. I had never seen a face so bitter, so thwarted and
sad. Never back then, never since. I watched until my father
had finished drinking, pulled the tattered coat tighter around
himself, and walked back into the bar.

I drove home. Karen came home and got into bed beside me. I
put my arms around her. I told her: 'I love you with all my heart.'

***

My mother said, 'He was mathematical, musical. Played the
piano. Did the cryptic crossword in three minutes flat. He
could have got scholarships, gone on to university. He wasted
it all. He said it was because he had to go out to work when he
was too young, and then we were married and you children
were born. He kept changing jobs because he had no staying
power.'

She said, 'It's no use being a genius if you just drink it all
away.'

He drank and they fought. He came home and broke things.
We listened through the wall. I remember the boozy raving,
the pacing, the bitter rage. 'You're tone deaf,' he said. 'Your
voice is
dead
. The only thing you love is money.'
'You're no use to anyone,' she told him. She sold his piano.
He came home from work to find it gone.

He drank for three days. He followed us to my aunt's. She
called the police. He shouted as he was led away. He was going
to kill my aunt, kill us, then himself. My mother said, 'Just
yourself will do.' She was steely, contained, determined. She
looked after us well. When I graduated she told me, 'You're set
for life. Your father should be pleased. But he won't be able to
bear it. He'll look at you and see what he could have been.'

I thought, I look at him and see what
I
could have been.
Instead, I was a doctor. It was a happy day, my graduation. My
mother and sisters and Karen and I spent it together. It was as
if we'd all made good . . .

After the ballet I woke up in the night. I'd dreamed my
father was standing at the end of the bed, raising his glasses to
his face. Here I was in my tasteful bedroom, between expensive
sheets, my beautiful wife next to me. He was seeing what he
could have been.

But the dream had turned bad. Instead of triumph, I felt fear.
I dreamed that I looked at him, and saw what I am.

***

About five years ago I moved into my current consulting
rooms. I share a floor with other specialists. Our practice is
modern and friendly. I rush between the hospital and my
private rooms. I'm often called out late at night. I sweep
through the empty streets in my big car, through suburbs
washed with rain. I enjoy the silence before the crisis, before
my date in the corridors of pain. I'm used to seeing women
in agony. They plead and scream, they swear and cry. I touch
them somewhere neutral, on the shoulder, or on the foot. I
control them. I take away their pain.

At the public clinic the patients are overweight, tattooed
and smoky. They present with diabetes, pierced genitalia,
venereal diseases. They are not armoured with nice accents
and designer clothes. But I find them more restful than the
hectic matrons of Remuera and Parnell, who make every
consultation a social event. Sometimes, when I get home from
my private clinic, I feel as if I've been at a seven-hour cocktail
party, without booze.

One day my secretary told me, 'There's a man on the phone.
He says he's your father.'

My hands started shaking. I went into my room and took
the call. I heard voices and music. The slurred voice said,
'Working hard?'

I tried to treat him like pain. To assess the situation from a
long way off.

'It must be good,' he said. 'All those women. All that money.'
The voice trailed off. He made a sound, like a sob. 'You're just
like your mother . . .'

'I can't talk to you,' I said.

What do I know about him? I remember waiting outside
his work to give him a birthday present. I was nine or ten. He
took the present, opened it, but he didn't seem to see it. I
found myself explaining what it was. He laughed a bit; he
looked everywhere but at my face. I was puzzled. When I tried
to talk to him he slid away from the subject. He made wild,
irrelevant assertions, daring anyone to disagree. He had a
high, strange laugh. When others made a joke he looked
pompous and high-minded, but he laughed when nothing
was funny, or when something was sad or brutal or shocking.
He never answered a single question I asked.

He was musical. He was clever. Those were the only things
I knew about him. I never saw a genuine expression, or heard
a real voice. Can alcohol do that much damage — can it make
a personality disappear? Or had he been shadowy, incomplete,
wrong all along?

'He's been arrested again,' my mother said. He bounced
between dry-out facilities and the courts. He hit rock bottom
and stayed there. Then I learned he was working part time
driving taxis. A mate was lending him his cab. Can you
imagine it — that drunk, driving your wife, your daughter
around? We talked about it. Karen was sorry for him. She
didn't want him to be poor. She has a kind nature. But she said
his drunkenness made it dangerous for people and he ought
to be stopped. What could we do about it, though? I practised
not thinking about it. I became very good at that.

I was sitting in my room dictating notes. The young
assistant Viola came in with some files. She was tall, curvy,
with straight sandy hair and an intense way of looking, her
head turned sideways, her blue eyes fixed. She looked me in
the eye for too long. I turned away. Each time I came out to
reception she would stare like this, and when I turned away I
saw her looking at me in the window's reflection. It was hard
to communicate with her. It was as if she wasn't listening; she
was thinking.

'Got that?' I asked.

She looked startled and blushed. Then she gave me a goofy,
crazy smile and backed away.

I closed the door. What a weird woman, I thought. She
wasn't like this with everyone. She liked me. It was flattering,
but it worried me. She didn't seem to care about normal rules.
What would Clarice think? I hadn't done anything but I felt
furtive, guilty.

After work I was going to drive to the gym. Viola was
standing by my car.

'All right?' I said.

'My car's broken down.'

'Have you called someone?'

'Not yet.' She gasped and laughed. There was something
about her craziness, her helpless, raw ineptitude. It gave me a
funny, dizzy feeling, as if everything I'd built around myself
had fallen away. A long look passed between us. I saw myself
pulling her into the stairwell, pushing her against the wall, my
mouth against hers. She saw my expression; she blinked. Then
she gave me an uncanny smile. I ran my hand through my
hair. I picked up my sports bag and turned away.

She watched as I drove past, her expression fixed, dreamy,
wild. I drove to the gym. I worked it off. I burned the moment
away.

Then I went home to Karen and watched her making
phonecalls. I thought how much I loved her. Karen is never
embarrassed or shy or awkward. She always knows what to
say. I never feel a fool when I'm with her, never feel ashamed.
She is tough and competent. She is
of the world
. Not like
lawless, staring Viola, asking too much, asking for trouble.
Now Karen was going through my accounts, with the hard,
humourless look she has when she's thinking about money.

'Want to know how much you made this month?'

I laughed. I think of Karen as
golden
. She leaned back
on the couch and I lay on top of her, ran my hands through her yellow hair.

***

It was late on a Sunday night. Karen and I were in the bedroom
upstairs. I was reading; she was watching TV with the sound
turned down. The phone rang. I answered it and heard her
voice, soft, urgent. 'Dr Lampton?'

I registered her ridiculous formality. Everyone called me
Simon. Perhaps she thought it was some kind of disguise.